


Damned If You Do

by ivyfic



Category: Constantine (2005)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-19
Updated: 2005-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivyfic/pseuds/ivyfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between John’s visit to Gabriel in the church and Angela showing up at his apartment.  John breaks the news about his cancer to Chas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Damned If You Do

**Author's Note:**

> A little wall!kink, a little noncon, some possibly sketchy characterization.  
> Eternal gratitude to my fantastic beta, [](http://sydni-64.livejournal.com/profile)[**sydni_64**](http://sydni-64.livejournal.com/)

Chas didn’t knock. He never did. He knew John kept the door to his apartment unlocked. The runes kept the half-breeds out, and as for everyone else – John didn’t worry about them.

The door banged shut, but John didn’t look up from his glass. He swirled the amber contents and tossed them back, then took a long drag on his cigarette. He grimaced as the deep breath started a tingling tightness in his chest. He held his breath and waited for the feeling to pass. He would not start coughing blood in front of the kid. Chas didn’t need to see that.

Chas crossed the room babbling about – something. John wasn’t paying attention. Ever since the doctor’s visit, a chasm had opened between him and the rest of the world. Especially Chas. Chas was so young and energetic and eager – it was sickening to be around, and impossible to keep up with. There was a reason he was avoiding the yellow cab.

“Hey, hey, earth to John,” Chas waved his hand in front of John’s face, leaning across the kitchen table. “Is there a reason you’re blowing me off, or is this just your normal pissy self?”

John gazed across at those annoyed eyes and took another drag. “Jesus, John, you look like shit!” Chas exclaimed. “I mean, you’ve always got that brooding, pale, arrogant thing going, but now you look like something Lucifer spat up.”

John blew out the smoke, careful to direct it away from the kid’s face. Second-hand smoke was something he didn’t need to inherit. John looked down into the contents of his cup and swirled them again. He couldn’t deal with this exuberance right now.

He needed to be alone or he would do something he’d regret. He wanted to take Chas down a peg, let him know what the rest of the world felt like. Or maybe just what he felt like.

“I have lung cancer,” John stated flatly, still looking into the bottom of his glass.

The room was completely silent. He’d actually shocked Chas into silence. That was a first.

Before the kid could recover, he continued on, his voice sounding dead even to his own ears. “It’s terminal. I’ve got about six months. Maybe a year.”

He looked up at Chas now. The kid looked like his world was falling apart. Maybe it was. And maybe those were tears in his eyes. Shit. John didn’t want to feel this right now; couldn’t deal with somebody else’s pain too.

Chas seemed to be struggling to breathe. “Wha…?” His voice came as a trembling exhalation. “But – but you can fight this, right? I mean, people beat cancer all the time. You’ve just got to go on chemo, or, or something, make it go into remission, right?”

God, had he sounded that whiny earlier when he spoke to the doctor and to Gabriel? Hearing it now from someone else it all sounded so pitifully feeble. John laughed and took another drag.

Chas exploded from pain to anger in a second. “This isn’t funny, John!” He slapped his open hand on the table. “How can you sit there and just –“ the end of his sentence turned into a growl and he reached across the table and swiped John’s lit cigarette from his lips.

“How can you smoke this all calm like nothing has changed! You just said these things are killing you and you’re still lighting up?” His voice was trembling with what sounded like betrayal. “For Christ sakes, John, you just told me you were dying!” Chas’s voice broke over the words.

John felt like Chas was on the other side of a wall. It was like watching this movie of his friend and he felt bad for him in theory but it didn’t feel real enough to do anything about. John wanted to reassure the kid but he couldn’t get his face to work. His flesh felt dead already.

He picked up his pack and tapped out another cigarette, blithely raising it to his lips and lighting it. “God damn you, Constantine,” Chas growled. He grabbed the still lit lighter from John’s hand, smashing the cigarette and his friend’s fingers. He took the pack, too, and reached to throw them out the open window.

“He already did,” John ground out, advancing on the kid. “It’s a little late to reform now, don’t you think?” He was mad now and he could see Chas’s anger draining into fear. “In six months I’m dead, no matter what I do, and when I’m dead I’m going to hell. End of story.”

Chas was backing up, warily.

“You think I haven’t tried to weasel out of it already? You think I haven’t pulled every string I could? You think I _want_ to go to hell? I’ve been there already, believe me, I’m not looking forward to the return trip.”

Chas stumbled over the jugs of holy water and his back clattered into the shutters. His hands, still holding the lighter and cigarettes, crossed protectively against his chest. “But – but you’re one of the good guys, John. You help people, you fight evil, I’ve seen you do it. You’re good, John.” Chas’s voice was small, childish. The sound just made John angry – at God, at the balance, at this whole stupid Game other beings were playing with his life.

John pulled the smoldering cigarette out of Chas’s limp fingers. The lighter hit the floor with a clatter. The kid was so close to him now, he could not avoid looking into that frightened face.

He felt so tired.

He leaned his hand against the wall next to Chas’ head and tried to draw strength from the solidity of the wood. He could feel the whole world tilting and suddenly keeping his head upright was too much. John leaned his head forward, resting it next to his hand. His feet tangled with Chas’s as they fought for purchase in the narrow space between the bottles ringing his apartment. His hair prickled against the crook of Chas’ neck and suddenly Chas went very still like a doe in high beams. John could hear his fast breathing; hear how hard he was struggling to slow it down. John could just imagine his eyes wide and open, staring past John’s shoulder.

“Are you OK? John?” Chas croaked out and his voice sounded tight, like the mere presence of John was crushing the breath out of him

He brought his right hand up to his mouth to take a drag from his cigarette and his fingers brushed against the kid’s stomach and chest, the action ashing on Chas’s clothing and probably burning it. John couldn’t make himself care. He pulled heavily on the cigarette, noticing that Chas was making small sounds like he was trying to swallow. He breathed out into the space between them, the caged smoke making his eyes tear and Chas cough abortively.

He dropped the stub and moved his toe to stamp it out. His leg rubbed against the boy’s, knee to thigh, and he collapsed a little more toward the wall, bringing his chest hard against Chas’s. Vaguely he noticed that his breath was getting heavier, too. He could feel Chas’s heartbeat through the T-shirt.

Chas felt so warm and John was so cold. Chas had fifty, maybe sixty years ahead of him before he had to worry about heaven and hell. John wanted that so badly. He had thought about his own death every day since they revived him in the ambulance. He’d spent every moment of borrowed time trying to erase that mistake, to make himself the exception to the laws that governed everyone else.

But now he’d lost that. It didn’t matter – everything he’d done – none of it mattered. He’d spent all this time forcing himself to look hell in the face every day and it hadn’t changed a damn thing. He might as well have spent the last twenty years getting high and bedding hookers. Instead he’d tried to make himself into a fucking soldier in God’s army. What a waste.

But Chas… Chas had everything John had lost: youth and life and innocence. John wanted to touch that in Chas, as if he could hold it tight enough to leech some of the hope back into himself.

“John…?” The voice was barely a whisper. Chas continued, hesitant, so quiet John wouldn’t have been able to hear it if he wasn’t so close. “John? What’re you doing?”

John sighed and brought his cheek against the soft skin of Chas’ jaw. The motion made Chas’s windbreaker crinkle softly, breaking into the stillness of their mingled breaths. John braced his right hand against the wall, caging Chas in. He knew it wasn’t necessary – Chas wouldn’t run from him. Whether it was loyalty, or concern, or something else, John didn’t know but he knew that whatever he asked Chas would do.

John drew his head back, his stubble rasping against Chas’s skin. “Ask me to stop,” he whispered into Chas’s ear. This felt important. Like those words could justify what he was about to do. He pulled back further, his forehead resting against Chas’s, the boy’s face unfocused in front of him. “Ask me to stop,” he said again and noticed that Chas was trembling, his eyes confused. His hands were held rigidly between them as if he couldn’t decide what to do with them, whether to push John back or pull him closer. Then John leaned in and kissed the agape mouth.

John pushed his tongue between those motionless lips. Chas’s mouth tasted clean against his smoke-filmed tongue. John thought, if innocence had a taste, this would be it. He brought his hands up to Chas’s head and knocked the cap to the floor. The gesture felt debauched. John tugged on the curly hair, trying to get a better angle, but Chas’s mouth stayed as still and open as a fish gasping for breath.

 _What am I doing?_ John thought. _What am I doing? Chas thinks of me as a father – he idolizes me. Why am I taking this from him?_ Words swirled through John’s mind, sounds disconnected from any meaning. Harass. Molest. Rape.

John’s thoughts tripped over the last one. He suddenly wanted this so badly, to be as close to the life in Chas as he could, but he had to believe that he’d stop if Chas pushed him away. He pulled his mouth away from Chas, running his hands down the round cheeks. He said again, desperate, “Ask me to stop.”

Chas didn’t say anything, just gasped a sound that could have been John’s name. John pushed forward again, pressing against the still open mouth. He let his full body weight push Chas against the wall. Chas’s hands poked like spokes into his gut.

He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. He tried to think about the consequences, but those thoughts slipped away like liquid. Whatever happened now he would not have to live with the consequences for long. For the first time in a long time death was a comfort. He felt liberated. He was going to die. He was going to go to hell. Nothing would change that. Whatever he did now would not cost him a thing.

John pushed Chas’s windbreaker off his shoulders, the cuffs catching on Chas’s rigidly splayed fingers. The hands betrayed Chas’s reluctance, the realization catching in John’s throat. He brushed his lips along Chas’s jaw and neck, breathing again, “Ask me to stop.”

John could feel Chas shaking against him. The muscles in his body trying to fight or run, rebelling against Chas’s stillness. John ran his hands under Chas’s tee, feeling the twitching of his stomach at the touch. Chas’s arms were still held stiffly at his sides, his windbreaker twisted around the wrists. Innocent, John thought. Too innocent to fight what’s going on.

John ran his hand down to the front of Chas’s pants, proving Chas’s disinterest. Chas whimpered, gasping out half formed words. “Ask me to stop,” John said again, the four words becoming a mantra that protected him from the responsibility of what he was doing.

He kissed Chas again, the friction between them building a tightness in his chest. He heard a gasp and tasted blood against Chas’s lips. He was afraid for a moment that he had bit Chas hard enough to draw blood, then realized it was his own. He choked, wrenching his mouth away from Chas’s, angry at his weakness.

The coughs came hard and racking, making it almost impossible to breathe between spasms. He braced his fists against the wall, needing all his focus to keep from falling to his knees.

He felt soothing hands at his shoulders, holding him up, stroking the pain away. “It’s OK, take it easy,” he heard Chas murmur. He let Chas push him back to a chair, easing him down as he continued to heave. He curled over the table and Chas stroked his back until the coughing passed.

When he could, John looked through the tears in his eyes at Chas. Chas’s hair was a mess, tugged in a dozen different directions. His windbreaker was half on and half off, partly covering the bright red spot on his shoulder where John had coughed. His mouth was smeared with blood that left an ugly trail across his cheek. His eyes were filled only with concern.

John was repulsed with himself. He turned away from his friend and stared at the table until he heard the front door open and close.  



End file.
